t in Thee,--no
sincerity, no constancy. I know what men are; how deceitful in their
words; how unkind in their judgments. Yet this lower being within my
being forever stretches out its longings to sensible things that
deceive, and will not rest in Thee, who art all Truth. But I must be
brought back to Thee through the sharp pangs of trial and tears. Spare
me not, O Master! only do not punish with the deprivation of Thy Love!"

He rose up strengthened, yet with a premonition in his heart of great
trials awaiting him. Who would dream of such tragic things under the
heavy skies and the dull environments of life in Ireland?

CHAPTER VIII

OUR CONCERT

The winter stole in quietly, heralded by the white frosts of late
October; and nothing occurred to disturb the quiet of the village,
except that Father Letheby's horse, a beautiful bay, ran suddenly lame
one evening, as he topped a hill, and a long reach of mountain lay
before him on his way to a sick-call. There were, of course, a hundred
explanations from as many amateurs as to the cause of the accident. Then
a quiet farmer, who suspected something, found a long needle driven deep
into the hoof. It had gone deeper and deeper as the action of the horse
forced it, until it touched the quick, and the horse ran dead lame. The
wound festered, and the animal had to be strung up with leather bands to
the roof of his stable for three months. Father Letheby felt the matter
acutely; but it was only to myself he murmured the one significant word,
Ahriman.

Late one evening in November a deputation waited on me. It consisted of
the doctor, the schoolmaster, and one or two young fellows, generally
distinguished by their vocal powers at the public house, when they were
asked for "their fisht and their song." The doctor opened negotiations.
I have a great regard for the doctor, and he knows it. He is a fine
young fellow, a great student, and good and kind to the poor. I often
spent a pleasant hour in his surgery over his microscope, where I saw
wonderful things; but what has haunted me most is the recollection of a
human brain, which the doctor had preserved in spirits, and on which he
has given me several lectures. I remember well my sensations when I
first held the soft, dark, pulpy mass in my hand. All that I had ever
read in psychology and metaphysics came back to me. This is the
instrument of God's masterpiece,--the human soul. Over these nodes and
fissures it floated, l